


The Portrait

by kakumei



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Depression, F/M, Hurt, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakumei/pseuds/kakumei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nida Mahariel is getting her portrait done, and she’s filled with the anxiety of the consequences that came with placing Alistair on the throne and giving up their relationship. Portraits can be very self-reflective, and she’s afraid of how the painter perceives her while he captures her vision…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> I edited an old piece - it’s a little longer but hopefully a more decent read. This is meant to be a character study, or I suppose a character understanding piece for me, haha. Backdrop is that the Dark Ritual happened and romanced Alistair is forcibly turned king :(

Varel had insisted that getting her portrait panted would be an excellent political move. The people of Ferelden would know the face of their mighty saviour, and the nobles would know the face of a worthy ally. Or even better, he had put it, a suitable bride.

It was stupid and entirely superficial, Nida thought.

The thought of belonging to some pompous shem, if not the notion of participating in some annoyingly elaborate Chantry ceremony, infuriated her. Perhaps Varel hadn't insinuated that the idea of marriage was a good one on account of her race, but Nida believed the prospect of marriage was being used to tame her as the 'savage' that she apparently was. It would definitely appease the other arls and banns to know that the only Dalish noble of Ferelden would have some upstanding shem'len husband to keep her in control and ensure that she wasn't off eating some poor, defenseless child or whatnot, she thought to herself in contempt.

Perhaps showing her small, sad face to the general population was another bad idea in itself. Nida wasn't sure if half of Ferelden was aware that she was an elf. She was convinced that they would denounce her as the woman who saved their poor souls if they ever caught sight of the strange copper marks on her face or noticed the sharp, elegant tip of her ears.

But there she was anyway, although rather hesitantly. She was standing still with her thin arms stretched widely apart in her cold, drafty room, while a freckled adolescent meticulously worked to buckle her into her ceremonial armor. Nida would have asked him to close the shutters but the dark steel braced against her skin was also sending waves of icy chill along her creamy skin. She wobbled slightly on her feet as the boy latched the metal suit fervently onto her body, perhaps more because of her self-inflicted malnutrition rather than the fact that the boy was pushing the steel hard against her chest for optimum wear.

In reality, she never wore heavy plate – she had always favored light, minimal protection that allowed her to execute her swift, lethal moves with litheness and grace. She had always worked in the background and left the tanking to the larger, more capable men in her old group. The meat shields, she had called them. But she was her own shield now, Nida told herself, while standing in armor that made her feel twice as less as her unimpressive height.

“The painter has arrived!” Varel had suddenly announced, the thunder of his heavy boots bouncing off the stone walls as he strode into the room. He looked at the commander with great astonishment.

“You're quite the vision.” he lauded, and the proud beam on his face corroborated his honest. When the servant had finished his work, Nida groaned while she slowly collapsed her arms to her sides under the weight of her armor. Varel was very straightforward, a quality Nida somewhat admired of the man – he was someone who was much like her character, save for his endless optimism and fondness for numeracy.

The painter bustled into the room with numerous jars and palettes tucked under his pudgy arms. He studied Nida's appearance fervently while the servant moved to set his canvas near the shutters. The artist twisted his plump little mouth in scrutiny, his jet black brows furrowed in distaste. He was probably disgusted by how slovenly her bring strands of platinum hung over her face. And maybe more than just that aspect of her appearance, maybe.

Nida took position on the armchair in front of the painter's canvas, her gloved metal hands folded neatly in her lap. She did her best to hold back a shiver against the gale floating through the window while the painter swirled his brush over a sunlight yellow and emerald green, blending the two colors into a bright olive – that particular pigment would construct her eyes, perhaps.

She questioned why, of all places, he had decided to start on that particular feature.

He was making her nervous now, moving that brush so painfully slow, her back aching from the minimal support of the eggplant cushions behind her. Perhaps when he captured them in his art he'd see their hollowness, their lack of light and warmth, the complete agony in her eyes and reflect it behind every brush stroke.

Or he'd transcribe the diminished pride behind her vallaslin into horrible vines that reached and shot across her ghostly face like the menacing arms of a bare tree. The salmon cut that was gashed over her rich bottom lip would betray her and show as a horrendous crack that would tarnish her charm before the picture's audience.

She would appear to be nothing but a broken, damaged soul, dressed in a suit while she cried for lavish attention before she engaged in child's play with a wooden sword.

Time seemed to slowly drift and move like the quaint fell swoop of soft, feathered wings. The sun had quietly moved from its position in the sky, angled so that the light of its energetic arms gleamed against Nida's finely polished plate. She was struggling against the vestiges of sleep and boredom, her anxiety piled into the back of her mind while she stared blankly at the texture of the easel's paneling. The saffron fabric of the painter's hat would bob from the canvas' side while he scrutinized over a line or feature of her person.

She sincerely hoped that she had the opportunity to take a pin and strike that bloody hat and watch it fly in the air like a popped balloon; it annoyed her that much.

It surprised her then, when the painter let out a grunt and wiped his hands carefully with a pigment-stained cloth.

“I'll be back in about half an hour, madame,” the painter rasped in a breathy, raspy voice. He spoke like a glutton pig, she thought to herself, amused. “I will come back momentarily to finish your picture. You may see what I have at the moment if it pleases you.” The painter bowed as low as his girth would allow before he exited the room.

Left alone with with her soon-to-be image facing opposite from her, she wondered once more if the painter had indeed captured the darkness that crept behind her looks. The temptation to see just what horrors had transcended into his art was unbearable, and yet she found herself attached to her chair, unable to move a muscle.

She crossed her leg to the best of her ability, although she proceeded no further when she began to feel a slight pinch from her mail under her thigh. Nida pursed her lips, the mark on her lip given to her by a malicious Fort Drakon guard furled into a crescent.

There really wasn't much of a reason to look, she told herself.

Unless her imperfections really had been drawn in some cruel, demeaning manner.

Nida groaned listlessly and rested her chin against her palm. Her gaze was locked on her lap while she wrestled with the manic depressive thoughts that occupied her mind. The King of Ferelden was sure to see it himself.

He'd have to. And it would be the first time he'd lay eyes on her in months.

He'd look at it briefly, right before he meandered over a line of potential, buxom brides just waiting to be dragged to his bed and pop out an heir to the throne. He'd see Nida's faults and ugliness and he'd laugh to himself heartily over how lucky he was to have left such an awful mess behind him.

She moved her thigh again and the pain intensified, but it didn't matter to her. She shuddered slightly, parting her lips as the metal dug into her flesh. Physical pain at this point seemed more like a luxury than a problem. She was careful not to draw blood, however – it would be a pity to ruin such a magnificent suit over such melodrama, she nagged to herself.

Nida agonized over this small, insignificant decision – just one of the many she'd have to make today. Her thigh kept shifting back and forth over her leg. The nerves in her skin were shooting frantic messages to her brain but she simply ignored them with a chew of her lip. The pain was second-to-none compared to the weight of her thoughts and hopeless desires crushing the top of her skull.

The saffron-capped buffoon returned, boisterously finishing an apple before dusting his hands and setting off to his piece. Nida hadn't realized how close she was to tipping forward from her chair until she made a little shuffle back into her seat, the wind catching briefly in her throat from the shock. She uncrossed her leg and continued to stare lifelessly at the back of the canvas as she had done the entire morning. The images running in her head, her visions of the painter's work, were nothing short of disturbing.

After what was estimated to have been two, three hours at least since he had taken his break, the painter had finally set his brush down for good that day. Nida perceived a taste of sadism in his small, satisfied grin.

“I admit it's not my best,” the painter mused timidly, “but it certainly is a fine piece of work, my lady.” He waved his broad, thick hand, motioning her to rise and come see the fruits of his labour.

She did not rise immediately to see his results but eventually – and carefully – rose from her seat, her joints and back stuff and sore from hours of physical inactivity. Nida walked the short distance between herself and the easel and peered at it from its side.

It was the image of a small but fair young woman, with golden hair that gleamed against the pale curtains wafting behind her in the background. Her beautiful locks cascaded over the contours of her wide, imposing armor which exuded every sense of the battle goddess to those who gazed upon her likeness. Her vallaslin was nothing at all hideous; instead, it flowed harmoniously like splitting ocean waves over her smooth, untroubled brow.

And then Nida found herself lost in the figure's dazzling, emerald eyes. The painter's brush strokes had manipulated it to glow in its purity and determination. They were bold with passion and strength; there was no fear, no misery, no pain. Nothing at all like she had expected.

When the painter had asked for her opinion, she had surprised even herself when she burst into a short fit of laughter. She made no other reply before she huffed out of her room, clearly bemused.

Varel heard the bustle of her armor clearly from beyond his room and moved into the hallway to investigate.

“Is there something wrong, Commander? Was the painting not to your liking?” he asked worriedly.

Nida forced her office door open with a violent swing and paused.

They had betrayed each other. She placed him on the throne and he consorted with the witch behind her back. She was meant to die on top of that tower and be spared from the guilt of her sins, and he was meant to live on as a flag bearer and hero among the Warden Order. The guilt and truth of it was so evident on her face, and yet...

“The painting was good, I think,” she admitted frankly. “I was worried that he might have caught what I looked like and I'm glad that's not the case.”

She shut the door while Varel stared at the empty void she had left in the hallway with confusion.


End file.
